


Empty webs and attics

by bluefire301175



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change, various sex acts later on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:35:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24247378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluefire301175/pseuds/bluefire301175
Summary: John is a light in the darkness of these brick-lined corridors. Sherlock finds him more addicting than the cigarettes and he makes life in a boarding school far from boring.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Empty webs and attics

The early morning light peeks through the arches in the outer corridors of the courtyard. It’s warm already, at half past six, and the shrubs in the inner garden are overflowing with peonies. Bees at work eagerly search for pollen to take back to their queen. While unbeknownst to them, a pair of green eyes watches steadily as they gather pollen. Watching the trail they make as they fly back to the forest edge. Smoke from his pall mall cigarette trailing from his lips, mirroring the way the bees traveled miles and miles for the sake of their hive. A near replica of society at work. Of his parents, teachers, and meddlesome older brother. The work and excuses that the human race makes for the sake of one another as a tedious, roundabout way of benefiting themselves. It could almost be called beautiful if it wasn't so painfully ugly. 

Sherlock sits in the patch of grass between archangel Michael and Raphael’s statues. Legs stretched out to bisect the towering marble beings above him. He blows the smoke up into the stone wings, blackening them more than they have from his frequent forays here every morning. It was far too early in the day to be so perturbed by his own species attempts at hierarchy. He just came here to have a cigarette. A small fragment to settle himself as he prepared for the day to come. And it was the one and only ritual he kept even when everything he knew told him keeping a routine was dangerous. However, these early morning hours were the only pleasure he was allowed in this sorry excuse for a boarding school and he would loathe to let it end.

So he doesn't end it, and no one's the wiser.

He smiles around the cigarette at the thought. He enjoys the smoke filling his lungs. Ice and heat mixing into his chest before billowing out like an engine in winter. Like a smooth caress on mornings that feel too hard-edged.

He's just about to pull another drag when he hears the sound of footsteps on limestone coming from behind the hedges. He quickly snuffs his lifeline into the damp earth before crouching down, going as still as his marble counterparts. 

"Mr. Watson I know you are here under regrettable circumstances but do NOT think we will be giving you any special treatment as far as academics and discipline are concerned," says the headmistress.

Headmistress Stewart's nasal pitch sounds grating on the ears before dawn is far more unpleasant than normal, he thinks. Peeking through the shrubs he finds her severe features and ever-present plaid skirt focused ahead, addressing the air, as a figure, no doubt a new prospect, trails behind.

"I want you in line with the other boys as quickly as possible. We will not tolerate any lowered standards, is that clear?" She asks, unaware if her counterpart even hears her.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at this. No chance of that. Saint Bartholemew’s Academy for Boys, or St.Barts as his pedestrian schoolmates called it, was a large historically preserved catholic boarding school. One which held the hopes and dreams of rich aristocrats and languishing dukes last attempts at retaining their sense of superiority by living vicariously through their children. It was funded on the backs of the very same aristocracy and as such was expected to house only the best of the best in terms of wealth and status.This, however, did not correlate to intelligence, as much as the imbeciles on the school board thought otherwise. Not to mention even without the lack of intellect in admissions the current student body made up 80% of the stupidest beings alive. Anderson and Sally making up 75% of that respectively.

He hears the clear yet awkwardly voiced vowels of "Yes Headmistress" from the boy in response and he peeks closer through the bushes to get a better look. 

He inhales but that’s as far as it gets. The new prospect is closer than he expected, no more than 2 feet in front of him. This boy is ordinary. Short yet standing taller than he seems, holding still while fidgeting minutely. Uncomfortable in his uniform, and no doubt unused to the confining feeling of button-downs and ties. His hair is the color of dry sand and lies loosely in soft spikes on his head, while softer strands hang down slightly around his ears. And then he turns and suddenly all Sherlock can register is the sky blue of two irises, both looking directly at him. Sherlock finds his exhale only for his brain to kick in with a rushed index finger to his lips, he shushes quietly, hoping the boy can keep from startling.

The boy's mouth parts slightly, letting out a quiet breath of his own. He hides his surprise well with the only tells being the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the slow release of color in his cheeks. He makes small aborted movements with his hands and for a second Sherlock thinks he'll try to come close-

"Mr. Watson!"

The blond boy jumps, eyes shuttering for a second and feet taking a step back before turning towards the open corridor to answer.

"Yes...coming Headmistress Stewart!" He calls out in a low even tenor.

Sherlock ducks back down at the sound of the headmistress's voice not seeing that the boy looks back before leaving, searching for Sherlock in the hedges.

He's quiet where he's crouched, listening as the footsteps lead away. His heartbeat is loud in his ears and he's panting like he's run a marathon in ten minutes flat. Sherlock, for once, doesn't understand the sensations coursing through his blood. It's probably just the adrenaline he thinks. He did almost get caught after all. But he doesn't have any more time to question it as the bell tolls to signal the start of the day.

He stands, smoothing his clothes out to something semi-presentable, before heading to the west wing bathrooms. He’d much rather spend his last 45 minutes of freedom sitting with the lonely spiders than with his peers in the dining hall. 

Pushing the door open, he runs a hand through his hair while staring at his reflection in the mirror. He goes into his mind library. Pushing past the theory of relativity and the catatonic stages of post-traumatic disorders until he finds it. It’s the book his grandparents bought him on his 14th birthday and is his long-standing comfort. Dead Poets Society comes to life in the walls of his brain and he breathes in relief at the familiar words. Focuses harder on John Keating daring his students to be bigger than themselves. Focuses even harder to try to still his own shaking hands.

“Shit” he grates out.

The warning bell rings and the shaking doesn’t end.

**Author's Note:**

> It's taken me months to finish this first chapter and if it wasn't for quarantine I don't think I would have finished otherwise. I'm excited by the possibilities in this and hope to see this through to completion.


End file.
